Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 60

Everything feels loud inside my head.

Not the kind of loud that comes from panic or urgency, but the constant, grinding noise of too many thoughts refusing to organize themselves. Chase. Professor Wilson. My mother. Amber. Miles. The competition. My body. My future. They swirl together until I can’t tell which feeling belongs to which person anymore.

I wake up already exhausted.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, tracing a crack that runs diagonally from the corner above my desk. I’ve traced it so many times I know exactly where it splits, where it thins, where it almost disappears before reappearing again. It feels symbolic in a way I don’t want to unpack.

I roll onto my side and grab my phone. A message from Chase sits unread from earlier that morning.

We should talk.

The words tighten something in my chest.

I don’t open it yet.

Instead, I sit up and let my feet touch the floor, grounding myself in the small, tangible sensations. Cold tile. The hum of the heater. My own breath moving in and out. I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room and pause, really looking at myself for once instead of scanning for flaws.

I look tired. Thinner than I should be. My eyes are sharp in a way that doesn’t read as confidence—it reads as vigilance.

I pull on a sweater and jeans and force myself to eat something simple, even though my stomach protests. I remind myself that nourishment isn’t a reward. It’s a baseline. Professor Wilson’s voice echoes in my head, calm and steady, and the thought of him sends a confusing rush of warmth through me that I immediately try to squash.

I hate that my mind goes there.

I hate that safety feels attractive now.

On campus, everything feels heightened. I notice Amber laughing too loudly across the quad, Miles leaning against a wall with that familiar smug tilt to his mouth. I don’t interact with either of them, but their presence feels like static in the air—old antagonists who still know exactly how to make my skin crawl.

In class, I take notes automatically, my hand moving even when my attention drifts. I think about my mother’s house, the way praise and criticism blend together so seamlessly it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. I think about how often I measure myself through other people’s eyes, how deeply ingrained that instinct is.

I think about Chase.

About the meeting. About the dean’s words. About the way responsibility has been slowly, quietly placed on my shoulders without anyone asking if I can carry it.

I think about Professor Wilson again, and this time I don’t immediately push the thought away. I examine it, carefully, like a bruise I’ve been avoiding touching.

It isn’t about desire, I realize. Not really.

It’s about how he makes the room feel calmer when he enters it. About how he speaks to me like my well-being matters just as much as my output. About how he notices without demanding, supports without consuming.

That scares me more than attraction ever could.

By lunchtime, my head feels too full to contain itself. I spot Ellen sitting under a tree near the library, her book open on her lap, legs tucked comfortably beneath her. The sight of her feels like relief.

I walk over and sit beside her without asking.

She looks up, offers a small smile. “You look like you’re carrying the entire world today.”

“Feels like it,” I admit.

She closes her book but doesn’t put it away, like she’s leaving herself an exit if I decide not to talk after all. I appreciate that about her—she never traps me in conversations.

We sit in silence for a moment, the leaves overhead rustling softly.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” I say finally.

Ellen nods. “That checks out.”

I huff a weak laugh. “It’s not funny.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But it’s also not a failure.”

I stare at my hands, twisting the hem of my sweater. “I feel pulled in too many directions. Like no matter what I choose, I’m betraying someone.”

“Who?” she asks.

I hesitate. “Everyone.”

She considers that. “That’s usually a sign you’re forgetting yourself.”

The words land softly but firmly.

“I don’t even know what I want,” I admit. “I just know I’m tired of being afraid all the time.”

“Afraid of what?” she asks.

I swallow. “Of becoming like my mother. Of staying stuck like Chase. Of being punished for wanting more. Of being alone if I choose myself.”

Ellen listens without interrupting, her presence steady and unassuming.

“There’s also…” I trail off, my throat tightening.

“Also?” she prompts.

I take a breath. “I think I’m… attracted to someone else.”

The words feel dangerous, fragile, and necessary all at once.

Ellen doesn’t flinch.

“Okay,” she says.

I blink. “That’s it?”

“What were you expecting?” she asks mildly. “A lecture?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Judgment, maybe.”

She shakes her head. “Attraction happens. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.”

“But I’m still with Chase,” I say. “And it feels… wrong.”

“Do you want to act on it?” she asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then don’t,” she replies simply. “But don’t punish yourself for feeling something you didn’t choose.”

I exhale slowly. “I feel so guilty.”

“Guilt can be informative,” Ellen says. “But it can also be a cage.”

I glance at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says carefully, “if guilt keeps you from being honest with yourself, it stops being useful.”

I lean back against the tree, staring up at the sky through the branches. “I’m scared I’ll disappear into guilt if I let myself feel everything.”

She turns toward me. “That’s what I wanted to warn you about.”

I look at her.

“Don’t disappear into guilt,” she says quietly. “It’s another way of erasing yourself. Just dressed up as morality.”

The words hit deep.

“I don’t want to hurt Chase,” I say.

“I know,” she replies. “But hurting yourself indefinitely isn’t kindness. It’s avoidance.”

I close my eyes, letting the truth of that sink in. When I open them again, the world feels a fraction steadier.

Later that afternoon, I finally open Chase’s message.

We should talk.

I type back slowly.

I know. I just need a little time.

The response comes almost immediately.

About what?

Everything, I think.

About everything, I reply.

I put my phone away before he can answer.

As the day winds down, I walk campus with a strange sense of detachment. I notice how much of my energy has been spent managing other people’s emotions—anticipating reactions, cushioning truths, absorbing fallout. I think about Amber and Miles, how their cruelty used to define my sense of worth, and how little power they actually have over me now.

I think about my mother again, and the way love can feel like pressure when it’s conditional.

I think about Professor Wilson, and the way his concern made me cry not because it crossed a line, but because it didn’t.

The realization makes my chest ache.

That night, lying in bed, I replay my conversation with Ellen. I let myself feel the attraction I’ve been denying—not indulging it, not romanticizing it, just acknowledging its existence without attaching shame to it.

I also let myself feel the love I still have for Chase. The worry. The grief. The exhaustion.

Both can exist.

That doesn’t mean they’re compatible.

I stare at the ceiling again, the familiar crack tracing its path across my vision. This time, I notice something new—where it branches off, creating a second line that leads somewhere unexpected.

I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.

But I know this:

I can’t keep carrying everyone else’s weight while pretending mine doesn’t matter.

I can’t keep confusing guilt with goodness.

And I can’t keep ignoring the quiet voice inside me that’s asking—gently, persistently—for a life that feels safe, honest, and mine.

The thought doesn’t bring clarity.

But it brings relief.

And for now, that’s enough to let me sleep.